Before and After
by Aima D. Duragon
Summary: For George, there's only Before and After. This is a tale of two brothers.


**Round 9**

 **Prompt:** Bludger - Write about a witch or wizard being attacked. (This could be anything from being bullied to a Death Eater raid to a swarm of Cornish pixies surrounding a character—again, use your imagination.)

Just in case the point doesn't happen to get across, the 'attack' in this story comes in the form of panic attacks. ^_^

 **Optional Prompt(s):**

15.(word) slate

2.(word) defeated

 **Word count:** ~2600

 **A/N:** For George, there's only Before and After. This is a tale of two brothers.

* * *

 _13 minutes Before_

"George?"

George turned to face his twin, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants. He could hear the sounds of chaos coming from the Great Hall, just around the corner. How the Death Eaters had even made it past McGonagall's and Flitwick's wards…

There wasn't enough of the Order left to fight all of them. They were going to—

"George!"

Fred's hands on his shoulders managed to still George's thoughts. He stared at his brother's face, identical to his own in own in every way, and felt a heavy blanket of calm settle over him.

The stretch of Fred's mouth was grim. "Things are about to get—"

"Hairy, I know. But, hey, we've been through worse, right?"

Like the flip of a switch, Fred grinned. "Much worse of course. We did grow up with our mother. That being said, you better not lose another ear."

"And you better not let those blighters blast off one of yours just so you can match. I'm finally special, and I won't let you steal all my glory."

"You foil all my plans!" Fred lamented.

For the first time since they entered the castle, George felt the rumblings of true excitement stir in his chest. "Now let's go foil some of theirs!"

Fred grabbed hold of George's hand and clasped it between them. "You read my mind."

* * *

"George?" Dr. Theresa Call's voice was soft and gentle and very far away. "George, it's alright. You're not there."

George shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. Distantly, he could feel someone holding the hand that rested on the plush, velvet couch. It was his brother's hand, he knew, but it felt all wrong — too small and uncalloused.

"George?"

* * *

 _1 minute Before_

The Great Hall was chaos — unyielding, incomprehensible chaos.

George ducked, pulling his brother down with him as a silver spell shot over their heads and burst through the opposite wall. Stone and dust rocketed through the air, enveloping them in a cloud of murky brown. Sweat dripped down George's brow as he straightened and whirled, his eyes straining to add context to the screams echoing around them. He raised his wand. A wind spell — they needed a wind spell — but he couldn't seem to remember its name. His mind was blank with terror.

Luckily, Fred's wasn't.

A whirlwind soared around them, ruffling George's hair and fluttering through his robes. Fred glanced at him over his shoulder, his lips parted in a wide smile and his blue eyes gleaming. "You're not going to make me clean this mess up by myself are—"

The jet of red light came out of nowhere. It streaked through the wind like a fiery bolt of lightning, careening towards its prey.

Before George could even think to react, the spell burst against Fred's chest, throwing his body back and sending them both careening to the ground.

George's head cracked against stone, and everything went quiet. The weight on top of him felt heavy and oddly still.

"Fred, you really need to start laying off those sweets." Black stars dancing across his vision, George pushed at Fred's shoulder. He didn't move. "Fred?"

George shifted, using all of his strength to pull himself up into a sitting position. Fred's body was dead weight in his arms. He wasn't breathing.

"Fred?"

* * *

"George," Dr. Call continued, "don't be afraid. You're suffering from a panic attack. It will pass."

Would it? George didn't know. A part of him was still screaming.

"I need you to try and take deep, even breaths."

The hand wrapped around his squeezed tight, but George couldn't make himself squeeze back. He couldn't control any part of his body, much less his hand. Everything felt like it was collapsing in. The room itself felt like it was growing smaller and smaller with each passing second.

He wondered if he was dying. Moreover, he wondered when dying had started to seem like the more alluring option.

* * *

 _1 minute After_

George screamed, his entire body cleaved in two by the sound. By the body lying limp in his arms. By the blood soaking through his shirt. By his own eyes, blank and lifeless, staring back up at him.

There was no air in his lungs and yet he still screamed.

He didn't think he would ever stop.

* * *

"Deep breaths, George. Come now, listen to the sound of my voice," Dr. Call said from the opposite end of an impossibly long tunnel. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."

How was he supposed to breathe when he was still screaming? He was still screaming, wasn't he?

He couldn't tell anymore.

* * *

 _2 days After_

George shuffled towards the bathroom running a hand through his mess of hair and trying to cling to the warm blankness of sleep deprivation. He felt as if he was floating — drifting through the familiar halls of the Burrow like a ghost. Maybe he was a ghost. That's how people were treating him anyway; either like he didn't exist, or like he was something too fragile to be handled.

The smell of flowers drifted up the stairwells, tickling his nose. Chrysanthemums. They had been Fred's favorite.

Had been…

George nearly choked on the bile that surged up his throat. He rushed through the bathroom door, nearly not making it to the toilet before what little he'd eaten the previous day boiled up his throat.

Pain blossomed throughout George's chest as the contents of his stomach depleted, leaving him dry heaving and gasping for air. A crushing weight settled itself across his back, spreading an aching heat down his spine and through his limbs. It pinned him down like a moth, until every inch of him was trembling. It was too much. He couldn't _breathe_.

Wetness poured down his cheeks into the muddied toilet water, but he couldn't tell if it was sweat or tears. Perhaps it was a bit of both. He wanted to drown in them.

Distantly, he heard someone else enter the bathroom. His sister's voice filled his ears, but it sounded blurred around the edges, like his ears had been stuffed with cotton. She seemed to be crying too, and her cloying hands were shaking him.

Then there was another body. Another voice.

Cool, dry hands gripped his face and pulled him close. "Breathe." For some reason, Percy's voice sounded much clearer than Ginny's had. Maybe it was because he wasn't crying. "Breathe, George. It's alright. You're okay. Just breathe."

"They can't—" George's voice broke around a sob. "They can't bury him without me."

"I know," Percy whispered, pressing his lips against George's forehead. "I know. Just breathe."

* * *

"If you can't control your breathing, try counting down from one-hundred in threes. Come on, George, try it with me. One-hundred...ninety-seven...ninety-four…"

* * *

 _10 days After_

George was laying down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He and Fred had painted a rainbow of fireworks across the wooden frame years ago, and charmed it to light up at night. The colors were mesmerizing — bright and vivid as they danced across their miniature sky.

"Do you think that next year—"

Silence filled the room as blue and gold broke through shadow and moonlight.

"I think that next year's production of Fanged Frisbees should be—"

The words broke off again. He still couldn't manage to regularly finish sentences. Every time he tried—

A red firework exploded across the ceiling, and George felt his heart lurch. For a moment he was back _there_ — back in that cloud of dust with that sickening weight on his chest.

George rolled onto his side as the now-familiar pain broke through him. He shut his eyes and tried not to scream.

* * *

Dr. Call kept counting.

George tried to follow her, but he couldn't keep the words in his mind long enough to comprehend them. The hand intertwined with his tightened. Percy's hand.

 _You have to try_ , it said. _You have to at least try_.

* * *

 _17 days After_

The sound that escaped George's mouth was terrifying and alien.

He stared down at the shattered Weasleys Wizard Wheezes box, his hands over his mouth and his heart drumming against his ribcage. What had he done? It had been their first one, and he'd just smashed it to bits — thrown it across the room like it was nothing. He'd destroyed it.

He'd destroyed them.

George collapsed to his knees as his chest caved in, crushing his heart. The shattered pieces of the box began to tremble, shards of broken wood and glass glinting in the afternoon sunlight that was pouring through his window. It was broken just like he was broken. Shattered. Irreparable.

"George?"

How had it come to this? He'd been whole once hadn't he? Just like that box? He could hardly remember.

"George." Slate-coloured eyes filled his vision as his brother's face swam into focus. Percy stared at him, his hands rising to cup George's cheeks. "George, it's okay. You're fine. Come on, breathe with me. Come on."

Percy's breath blew against his face, cool and grounding. It wasn't until that moment that George realized he was shaking, and that his face was soaked with tears.

"That's it," Percy said, smiling and breathing deeply once more. "Good. That's it."

George took a breath, and it was like coming up for air after nearly drowning. His whole body hurt.

The box...he'd broken…

"Hey." Percy's voice dragged his attention back. "Stay with me okay? It's fine. It's all fine. We'll fix it alright?"

Distantly, George nodded.

* * *

"Seve...Seventy-nine," George ground out even as Percy's hand gripped his so tightly he thought his fingers might break. He took a deep breath, and forced it back out. "Seventy-six...seventy-three…"

"Good, George," Dr. Call said soothingly. "Good. Keep counting."

* * *

 _32 days After_

He'd decided to cut his hair after one too many detrimental encounters with a mirror. Being able to see his scarred ear helped...somehow. Percy had cut his hair too, "as a statement of solidarity," he'd said. George still didn't really understand it, but he couldn't deny that it was nice to have someone doing the things that he did. It was something he would've never asked for — he knew well enough that he wasn't the only one grieving — but perhaps he could admit that it was something that he needed.

Especially today.

Percy shouldered him. "We don't have to do this, you know."

George looked up at the vibrant storefront of the Weasley Wizard Wheezes shop. Diagon Alley had not yet seen dawn's first light, and was mostly deserted save for the occasional passerby. The whole world felt hollow and empty. "I know."

George started walking. With a huff, Percy followed.

He jammed the keys into the front door, turned them, and pulled. A small bell jingled overhead and the store burst into light as the wards recognized their creator. It looked just as he remembered it — bright and colorful and _alive_. He hadn't known what to expect from walking into the shop for the first time After. Maybe he'd thought that a piece of the life that they'd poured into this place would fill him. Maybe he'd thought that it would heal the cavern inside of him.

He looked at the shop, and felt nothing.

"George?"

George shook his head. "It's not…" He couldn't finish.

"It's not what?" Percy asked. "Clean? Fully stocked? What?"

"N-no." George could feel the oncoming collapse like a looming shadow. "It's...not…" _Why_ couldn't he finish a simple damn sentence?

Percy grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace. "The same," he whispered, just as the overwhelming pain swept through George's body. "Of course. It's not the same."

* * *

Somehow... _finally_...the pain began to fade. It had not defeated him. Not yet.

His vision cleared. The shaking stopped. Suddenly, George remembered exactly where he was. He stared at Dr. Call blankly, watching a kind smile fold across her red lips.

"Very good, George," she said. "That was much better. The attack only lasted five minutes this time."

Only five minutes? Then why had it felt like a lifetime?

"I'm proud of you." It was Percy who spoke this time.

George turned to face him, something sparking in his chest at the sight of his brother's grin. "Yeah?"

The corners of Percy's eyes crinkled behind his glasses as his smile widened. "You have no idea."

* * *

 _56 days After_

"Percy?"

Percy looked up from the book cradled in his lap, his grey eyes shining in the firelight. "Yes?"

George pulled his sleeves down over his hands and rubbed them against his thighs. He could get through this. "I want you to know that I'm—" George's tongue caught against the roof of his mouth, his throat closing in.

"It's alright," Percy said, his voice as calm and steady as a still lake. "Try again."

"I-I'm...um…" George took a shuddering breath. He could do this. "I'm...sorry."

Percy's brows furrowed. After a long moment, he shut his book. "You're sorry?"

Desperately, George nodded.

"Whatever for?"

"Well...um...I kn-know that you—" Again the words stopped.

"It's alright, George. Take your time."

Heat prickled at the backs of George's eyes. He could _do this_. He had to. "I know...I know that you...lost a brother t-too. And I…" George scrubbed away the tears that had started to fall with the back of his hand. "I've been so...so selfish. So unbelievably selfish. And you've been…"

In the next instant, Percy was kneeling in front of him. He took George's hands in his own and held them tight. "Don't. Don't you dare blame yourself for anything."

A sob grabbed George's heart and held.

"Yes, I lost my brother, and nothing in the world will ever compare to the sorrow that I felt afterwards, but don't for a second believe that you've been selfish with me. George, what you and Fred had was so incredibly special. You shared everything, your whole lives. He was your _twin_. You think that anything I've felt could've possibly compared to that? I know that I'm not him — that I'll never even come close — but please...let me help you. It's all I've got, George. After what I did…"

George collapsed against his brother, burying his face in the side of his neck and allowing himself to fall apart. It was the first time he could recall that he wasn't scared his sorrow would destroy him. For this moment, at least, he could finally breathe.

* * *

 _1 day Before_

"You know," Fred said contemplatively, "I'm really glad Percy finally came round."

George goggled at him. "You're joking."

"I'm not, actually. I don't know, it's nice to have him back."

"But he's such a—"

"Slimy git, yes I know. But," Fred shrugged, a sly grin breaking across his features, "I think he may surprise us in the end."

Shaking his head, George turned his attention back to the Tiny Twister jar he was working on. "You're off your rocker."

"Just wait, brother mine. You'll see."


End file.
